


In Each Healing Step, There is Truth

by Dreaming_in_Circles



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Afghanistan, Alternate Universe - Modern Day, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Injury Recovery, Missing Limbs, Non-Canonical Character Death, PTSD, PTSD Dog!Steve, Trauma Recovery, based on art, or at least people try
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 09:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1813906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_in_Circles/pseuds/Dreaming_in_Circles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heads always turned when he walked down the street, but now they turn for different reasons. They're not thinking "how handsome" or "how brave," they're thinking "how horrible" or "how pitiful" or "how ugly." He doesn't care anymore; he just hoped to god he didn't lose his balance in front of them. Falling was easy with a bad leg, and really hurt with only one arm.<br/>If only they knew, Bucky thinks as he watches them stare. If only they knew about the nightmares, the paranoia, the hallucinations. Then they'd really pity me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Each Healing Step, There is Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! It feels like it's been forever since I was here, but I'm back! Okay, down to business.  
> This fic is based off the beautiful art of [Kate Natters ](http://cake-natter.tumblr.com/post/87667855544/tonights-cool-down-based-on-a-chat-with)of Tumblr, which is included below. But you should all go check her out, because she's cool.  
> This was beta'd by the lovely [Alison,](http://undercover-spirker.tumblr.com/) to whom I will be forever in debt. But then I tweaked it, so all mistakes are my own.  
> Hope you enjoy!

 

> The inability to get something out of your head is a signal that shouts, “Don’t forget to deal with this!” As long as you experience fear or pain with a memory or flashback, there is a lie attached that needs to be confronted. In each healing step, there is a truth to be gathered and a lie to discard.
> 
> \-- Christina Enevoldson

 

 

           They were getting shot at, which was nothing unusual for them. Bucky pressed his side up against the mud-brick wall and listened to the sound of bullets fly over his head and just a handful of inches in front of his face. They had a tangible feeling, as if he could feel the air they displaced as they flew by.

            He swung his body up over the wall and fired back at the Taliban in short, controlled bursts before ducking down again as more bullets riddled the brick around him. He took a moment to look around at the team he fought with – the Howling Commandos, they were called. Every man filthy, hunched behind some kind of cover, half of them grinning like fools.

            _We’re all insane,_ Bucky thought, a small smile creeping over his own face as Dum Dum Dugan caught his eyes with a wild grin. Bucky watched as Dugan pushed himself to his feet and shot several rounds at the Taliban before ducking down again. A moment later, Bucky copied the motion.

            “Dugan, Barnes, I’ll cover you. I want you to start pulling out.” Captain Rogers’ voice over the intercom brought Bucky back to earth. As fun as the adrenaline may have been, they needed to get moving now.

            “Roger that.” Bucky said, and Dugan laughed over the intercom. Bucky could picture the smile of Steve’s face at the play on words, but he got himself ready to pull out.

            He could hear the chatter from Rogers’ gun start at the same time the grenade came sailing between him and Dugan. He couldn’t remember thinking, just moving.

            He raced forward and grabbed the grenade in his left arm. Pain sprouted in his left leg, and his knee gave out on him. He tripped, fell, twisted, tried to toss the grenade away, but it exploded mere nanoseconds after leaving his hand. He remembered screaming in pain as his left hand lit up with painful fireworks. He could remember shouting, rolling, seeing Steve running, then falling, then nothing.

 

            When he woke in the hospital, two weeks later, the first thing he noticed was the lack of feeling in his left arm. That was scary. It was a long time before he could listen to anyone after he saw what was – or, rather, _wasn’t_ – left of his left arm.

            But, eventually, Commander Hill was able to get through to him. Bucky wished she hadn’t; the news wasn’t good. The Howling Commandoes, that group of fearless, invincible heroes, were dead. All of them, less him. He was alone, his closest friends in the world gone.

            Captain Steven Rogers was the only body they hadn’t yet found, and after two weeks it was unlikely they would. But they were certain he was gone. They’d have to bury an empty coffin.

            It was a long time before he got out of the hospital, even after he was sent stateside. And even after that, with a missing arm and a still-healing knee, they kept a tight leash on him. Weekly checkups. Daily therapist meetings. It didn’t take long before he was almost missing Afghanistan, a thought he’d never believed he’d have.

            He made some knew friends, like Sam from the VA, and reconnected with old ones, like Natasha from their unit, who’d gone home months before _the_ firefight. The funerals were nice; they were held at the same time, the Howling Commandoes all being buried together in Arlington National Cemetery. Everyone’s family showed up, at least, those that were able. Not Bucky’s, not Steve’s. A lot of old teammates came, and that was nice. It was good to know he wasn’t the only one who’d be remembering Steve.

 

 

            Bucky dragged his tired hand through his hair. He hadn’t cut it for months now, and it was getting too long. It was at the point where it was brushing his jaw. He reached for the rubber band on the table and pulled it back into a sloppy pony tail.

            The waitress walked by and gave him another smile. He forced himself to smile back and tried not to look so unforgiving. She’d been nothing but nice to him, he should be so—

            “Hey, pal.” Bucky looked up as Sam dropped into the seat across from him. He looked around the coffee shop for a moment, before letting his eyes settle on Bucky. Bucky knew Sam was seeing everything, he could tell by Sam’s eyes.

            “How’d you sleep last night?” Sam asked conversationally, but Bucky knew it was anything but conversational.

            “Fine.” He lied, because he didn’t want to talk about the nightmares, or the hallucinations, or the paranoia. Sam frowned but, remarkably, let it go.

            “That’s good.” He said with an incline of his head. “You find a job or something?”

            “Why do you ask?” Bucky frowned, because he hadn’t. He hadn’t even started looking yet.

            “Because you missed the meeting yesterday afternoon. Thought you might have been working.” Sam gestured to the nice waitress. “Coffee, black please.”

            “Coming right up.” She said with a smile for the both of them. Sam smiled back easily and Bucky knew his was weak compared to Sam’s.

            Sam turned back to him. “Well?”

            “Well what?” Bucky asked, taking a sip of his own coffee. It was cold.

            Sam’s smile slipped slightly. “Did you find a job?”

            “No.”

            “Then why’d you miss the meeting?” Sam asked, smile entirely gone. He’d been waiting for the negation, Bucky knew. He only shrugged in response.

            “Bucky, they can only help if you go to them.” Sam said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. Bucky leaned back, craving space.

            “They don’t help, though-“ He complained, starting the old argument.

            “If you would participate in them, they would. You just need to put some effort into-“ Sam started, right on cue.

            “Sam, if it were that simple I’d be better by now. Don’t you think I _want_ to?” Bucky interrupted, setting his coffee back down.

            “I don’t think you’re doing everything you can. I don’t think you’re working hard enough.” Bucky opened his mouth to argue, but Sam forged ahead. “This isn’t easy, Buck. I get that. I’ve been there. But you need to try. Take the meds, talk to somebody, come to the meetings. Those are the only things that’ll make you better.”

            Bucky shook his head as the waitress came back with the coffee. He didn’t bother to try and smile when she did. “It’s not that simple.”

            “Yes it is.” Sam insisted. “Buck, I’m worried about you.”

            “Well, don’t be.” Bucky took another sip of his coffee. “I can take care of myself.”

            “But you don’t have to do this yourself. Why won’t you accept help from those who offer it?” Sam leaned back and looked at him with sad eyes. Bucky couldn’t hold his gaze for more than a moment and looked back down at his coffee.

            “I don’t need help.” He breathed, and dug out some money from his pocket before standing.

            “Bucky, don’t-“ Sam said, regret in his voice, but Bucky shook him off and walked away. He could take care of himself.

 

 

            Nat called later that night. She and Clint were going out for a beer, wanted to know if Bucky would come. They both insisted he did, and he agreed.

            They stayed until the bar closed, far later than they should have, getting completely wasted, and went back to Bucky’s house for more beer after it finally kicked them out. The birds were just waking up by the time they had all passed out from a mixture exhaustion and alcohol.

            Bucky woke later that morning with a groan. He’d fallen asleep on a chair, and his neck was not happy about it. Clint was passed out on the couch, still snoring away. Nat was nowhere to be seen.

            Bucky pushed himself to his feet and staggered on unsure feet – his balancing problems made worse by his missing limb – to the kitchen where he could smell coffee. Nat had a pot brewing and was eating a bagel while she waited, leaning against the counter.

            “Where’d’ju get tha bagel?” Bucky mumbled, his mind not even remotely awake. Nat smirked and gestured to the small kitchen table. There was a box full of bagels just sitting there. Bucky scrubbed his face with his hand and looked at Nat slightly more clear-eyed. “You ordered ‘um.”

            “What a brilliant deduction, Sherlock.” She smirked at him.

            “Fuck off.” He muttered back and walked over to pull a cinnamon one from the box. He took a bite, but it suddenly felt like his mouth was full of cotton. Sure, it’d been dry before, but this wasn’t remotely stomach-able. He gagged and coughed it back up into his hand. Nat laughed.

            “You and Clint are weak.” She smiled at him.

            “Not all of use grew up drinking vodka for milk, Nat.” Bucky whined, dropping the bagel back into the box. “How long ‘til the coffee’s done?”

            Nat shrugged. “Couple more minutes.” She gave Bucky a hard look. “Sam called me yesterday.”

            Bucky pushed himself off the table, shaking his head. “No. No, we’re not doing this now. I’ve got one hell of a hangover, we’re not doing this now.” He made for the door, he could take care of himself—

            Nat pushed her hand into his chest, hard, stopping him in his tracks. He refused to look at her but she started talking anyway. “We’re not going to do it any other time, so why not now? Now, I might actually have a chance at getting you to listen to me.”

            “Noo.” Bucky moaned, but Nat move, and he knew she’d push until she got what she wanted. “Fine. Say it quick.”

            “I want you to get a dog.”

            Bucky looked at her in shock. _A dog? What?_

            She could clearly read it on his face, and one corner of her mouth twisted up in a smile. “I want you to get a service dog. Sam says they train a bunch of them specifically for veterans with PTSD. You can ignore this as much as you want, but you have PTSD, and a dog’ll help. Consider it a compromise.”

            “What am I getting out of this?” Bucky asked warily.

            “Besides your mental sanity?” Nat asked, and the verbal barb stung.

            “You said it was a compromise.” Bucky clarified.

            Nat nodded in understanding. “No more pills, no more people. You still have to go to meetings, but that’s a good deal and you know it.” She said.

            “You cooked this up with Sam.” Bucky said accusingly, backing away from Nat to lean against the table again.

            She nodded slowly. “I suggested the dog and cut the deal, yes.” Bucky frowned and she sighed. “I _know_ you don’t like him, but he’s got your best interests in mind, Barnes. Just go with him to get the dog and go to his meetings. That’s all I ask.”

            “Why is everyone trying so _damned_ hard to ‘ _help’_ me?” Bucky spit out in anger. “I can take care of myself, I’m not a child—“

            “I never said you were.” Nat interrupted, and Bucky could tell he’d managed to get even her heckles up. “But Barnes, you sure are acting like one every time you stomp off and refuse to let us help you.”

            “I feel like you’re all smothering me. ‘ _See the doctor, take the pills, go to the meetings.’_ It’s like you’re all trying to be my mother!” Bucky snapped back. Nat opened her mouth to respond, but never got the chance.

            “Who’s got th’ coffee?!” Clint called loudly from the other room, and then swore equally loudly after something _thumped_ to the ground. Nat laughed outright and even Bucky couldn’t keep his bad mood as he imagined what Clint must look like.

            Barton staggered into the kitchen looking disheveled and sour, and stared daggers at them as they laughed. He shuffled over to the coffee and poured himself a cup. “Mornin.’” He muttered to them before taking a long drink.

            “Good morning.” Nat smiled and pecked him on the cheek as she poured two more cups. She handed one to Bucky, and it was the strongest coffee he’d had since leaving the Army. Steve’s coffee had been the strongest he’d ever tasted, and as senior officer, he got preference. But he always insisted he make it himself: claimed no one else could get it right. The thought sobered Bucky, and the smile slid off his face.

            The trio drank in silence, Clint wrapped up in his hangover, Bucky wrapped up in Afghanistan, Nat watching the both of them.

 

 

            Three hours later, Bucky met Sam in front of the VA. Sam looked happy that he’d just showed up. Buck was sulking and he knew it. They walked to the kennel in silence.

            “The idea is that the dog will act as a stabilizing force.” Sam explained when they got there. “It’ll help you deal with the chaos and the nightmares, and it’ll give you someone to talk to who won’t ever talk back.”

            Bucky looked at Sam critically at that last line, but Sam studiously ignored the glare. He went back to looking at the dogs. They had all different species, but he didn’t see anyone that he wanted to take home.

            “This is pointless.” He muttered under his breath, and stalked around the outside of the kennel. A few dogs came to the fence the pressed their wet noses to it, tails wagging, eager to meet him. And then Bucky saw the golden retriever.

            It was the only dog of its kind in the kennel. It was sitting off to one side, and Bucky would swear it was looking right at him. The minute he laid eyes on it, its tail started sweeping back and forth across the ground in a slow arc.

            “That one.” Bucky said, pointing and turning to face Sam. “Can I take that one?”

 

 

            The collar was blue; the ID tag was circular with a red-white-blue pattern of nested circles with a star at the center. On the flip side, the retriever was identified as “Steve.” Both Sam and Nat had frowned at his choice, but as Bucky came to know the dog he knew no other name would fit.

            Steve had the same quiet enthusiasm and fierce loyalty of his namesake. He was the same grounding force that the real Steve had been for Bucky all his life. He slept with Bucky, licked the tears from his face when he woke screaming with nightmares. He was there whenever Bucky lost his balance and fell. He gave Bucky a reason to start running in the mornings again, and he hadn’t felt so good since he’d woken up in the hospital all those months ago.

            Steve breathed new life into Bucky. It was as if he were a whole new person.

 

 

> **Author's Note:**

> I am planning on continuing this, just give me time to chase down my plot bunnies.


End file.
